by Mainak Dhar
Neil sat down by the side of the road, watching the vehicles disappear into the distance. He coughed out more blood and then lay down, unable to sit any more. His body felt like it was on fire, but he smiled one last time. He had managed to get Neha to safety, and she had called him her boyfriend, had she not?
With that last thought, Neil George relaxed, closed his eyes and awaited what was to come.
***
WE’LL NAME HER ALICE
‘Bob, I need some American Chopsuey NOW!’
Robert Gladwell put the phone down with a sigh. He might be the second-in-command at the American Embassy in New Delhi, but when it came to his wife, Joanne, there was no question who was in charge. Especially when she was cranky, sleepless and in the middle of a very tough pregnancy.
They had been in New Delhi for close to two years, and Gladwell had been through enough Third World postings in places like Bangkok, Jakarta and Riyadh to appreciate the real richness of cultures and relationships that lay beneath the surface.
He told his secretary that he was going to take a slightly longer than normal lunch break and as he told his driver to head to their apartment in the city’s Diplomatic Enclave, he called ahead to order some Chinese food. He had long realized that the Chinese food available in India was nothing like what he had tasted in the US, or indeed during his trips to China when he had been on a trade delegation. It was spiced, fried and tossed in ways that were possible only in India, and the crispy noodles with oversweet sauce ambitiously named ‘American Chopsuey’ most Americans would have found neither American nor Chopsuey. But who was Gladwell to argue with a pregnant woman’s cravings?
‘Dan, after lunch, I think I’ll stop by for the briefing at South Block.’
Gladwell put down his phone after telling his Personal Security Officer in the car following him about his plans and thought about just how much things had changed. A year ago, security would no doubt have been tight, but he would not be tailed by a contingent of officers from both the US Diplomatic Security Service and India’s Special Protection Group, even when he headed out for a quiet family dinner.
The world was imploding fast – tensions in the Middle East had reached a fever pitch, and the attacks on Israeli diplomats in New Delhi in early 2012 had proven to be just a small preview of what was to follow. Attacks on US and Israeli diplomats had occurred through the rest of the year around the world, and the finger of suspicion had always pointed back to Iran. Israel was itching to bomb Iran, and the US efforts at holding it back were fast slipping. Being in India put Gladwell and his team in an especially uncomfortable place. India, while allied to the US, had important commercial interests in Iran, and was also reeling from constant attacks from terrorists based in Pakistan, a nation the US was relying on to allow some sort of orderly withdrawal from the festering mess that was Afghanistan.
Just thinking of it all gave Gladwell a headache, and he was not looking forward to the afternoon’s briefing by India’s External Affairs Ministry, where they would share intelligence about how rogue Jihadi elements were dangerously close to getting control of Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal. Gladwell had seen it all before, in files sent his way by the CIA, but the leadership back in the United States was choosing to stay strangely mum about it all. If all of that was not bad enough, then there was the recent virus in China that had led relations between China and the US to hit rock bottom, and the occasional skirmishes between Chinese and Taiwanese forces did not help. Between Jo’s mood swings and the chaos at work, Robert Gladwell looked forward to the pint of beer he had been promised by an old Army buddy who was in town later that evening.
‘Hey, Dad, don’t tell me Mom wanted that Chopsuey crap again!’
‘Young lady, you watch your language.’
Gladwell waited to see the expression on his ten-year old daughter’s face gradually change from one of amusement to one of concern. Gladwell rarely lost his temper, but she knew that it wasn’t a great idea to make him do so. Finally, he smiled and ruffled her hair.
‘Put your school bag in your room and help me set the table, and to make up for the Chopsuey, we’ll have some ice cream after lunch.’
Jane whooped and ran more than walked to her room, as Gladwell went to meet his wife, Joanne.
Dr. Joanne Gladwell was six months pregnant and now very much showing it, but she still insisted on participating in the one thing beyond her family that she was passionate about – the Make-A-Wish foundation. She had a Doctorate in Literature and had taught for some years, but gradually found it hard to sustain a teaching career with the constant moves that came with being the wife of a Foreign Service Officer. So she channeled her energy and passion into volunteer work. As Gladwell walked into their bedroom, she was reading up on some of the fundraising plans for the foundation.
‘Sweetheart, how’re you feeling today?’ Gladwell leaned over and kissed her on her forehead, lovingly playing with her blonde hair. Jo held his hand and made him sit down next to her. ‘What are you looking at?’
Jo smiled as she answered. ‘At my knight in shining armor, my bearer of American Chopsuey.’
Gladwell laughed and got up to set the table.
‘Sweetheart, I’ll rush through lunch a bit as I have a meeting to get to. By the way, how’s the little one?’
Jo grimaced a bit.
‘She’s kicking, as always. This one will be a real firecracker.’
Jane had been a dream pregnancy and a real angel to bring up. Their second child, a girl, as they had learned in an ultrasound back in the US, was quite the opposite. Jo had terrible morning sickness in the early months, and now, the little one never seemed to stay still.
A rushed lunch later, Gladwell was at the meeting, but it was the press conference in the evening that he dreaded more.
***
‘Mr. Gladwell, what can you tell us about what is happening in China and what is your reaction to the Chinese government’s accusation that this virus is the result of biological warfare by the United States?’
Gladwell had been wondering when the question would be asked. The first thirty minutes of the press briefing had been routine questions about the Middle East and the situation in Pakistan, for which Gladwell had stock platitudes ready. But the China situation was one where Gladwell had received no instructions or briefing from his bosses back in Washington. All he knew from intelligence reports was that an unknown virus was raging in China, with the epicenter being a remote military installation in Mongolia. The Chinese had tried to hush it up, a tactic that backfired when the virus exploded after three days. Reports were sketchy, and Gladwell personally thought stories of frenzied victims attacking others were over the top. He wished the Ambassador had been around, but he was on a vacation back in the US, and Gladwell had been left holding the fort.
He took the mike. ‘I’m sorry, but I have no information to share on that beyond what Washington has already shared.’
An hour later, Gladwell was seated at a pub with Joshua Abernathy, a face from his past life. As often happened with close friends, there was no need for small talk, even though they were meeting after a dozen years. After hugging each other and ordering drinks, they sipped their beer in silence and only when Gladwell started his second pint did Joshua speak what was on his mind.
‘Things are going to get real ugly. You thought of getting your family somewhere safe, with Jo being pregnant and all?’
‘Aren’t you overreacting? India and Pakistan have been playing these games for years, and even if the shit does hit the fan in the Middle East, we should be safe here.’
Joshua put his mug down and his eyes were creased with worry. ‘That’s not what I’m talking about. You do remember what I did when I left the Army, don’t you?’
Gladwell still didn’t know where Joshua was going with this, and motioned to Joshua to wait as he ordered another round of drinks.
‘Bob, you need to pay attention, please.’
That got his attention, and Gla
dwell looked at Joshua, curious as to what had spooked his normally unflappable friend.
‘I joined Zeus, a PMC. Private Military Contractor. After Bosnia, when we left the Army, my skills were useless in the civilian world and I wasn’t as smart as you were to be able to study and become a diplomat. Zeus contacted me, and for a while it was fun. I ran protection duties for VIPs, hooked up security for international summits and so on, and it paid well. But then it got ugly.’
Gladwell waited as Joshua paused to take a sip, and then continued, an edge to his voice.
‘My bosses seemed too well-connected. As I got deeper into the organization, they would regularly meet folks at the State Department and even the White House. Then I was transferred to their Special Division, which, as I quickly learnt, did a bunch of black ops that could be denied by the people ordering them as no US forces would be involved. Stuff like illegal renditions, and hits on targets in countries we’d normally consider friendly.’
Bob could see his friend was worried, but none of this was news. PMCs had mushroomed in the 90s and the War on Terror had provided them a lot of scope to peddle their wares to the highest bidder. Some had grown to have resources to train and equip whole armies for tinpot dictators. But then Joshua continued.
‘There are Zeus operatives crawling all over this city. I left Zeus a year ago when I couldn’t handle their dirty business any longer, but I still have contacts there. They’re all over the Middle East, China and Asia, and it can’t be a coincidence that trouble is being stirred up there.’
‘Zeus may be powerful but they can’t be doing all this on their own. That sounds too far-fetched.’
Joshua leaned over. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. There are folks in our own system making this happen.’
Joshua’s words stayed with Gladwell, but he found it hard to believe that elements in the government could have been engineering this level of chaos. Sure, he was no babe in the woods, and he knew that politicians and business interests were not above dirty tricks to suit their agendas, but something on this scale, with such global ramifications – that did not make any sense.
He spent the evening at home, playing on their PS3 with Jane and then helping Jo decorate the room they had already assigned to their new baby. At night, as had happened for a few weeks, they sat together and debated baby names
‘Alexis?’
‘No, sounds too strong. I want a nice, feminine name.’
‘Lucy?’
‘Too common.’
And on it went till they had added a couple of additional names to their already long shortlist.
***
‘Bob, this guy’s refusing to go away. Sorry to bug you on this but could you help out?’
Gladwell groaned and got up from his desk. He couldn’t blame his secretary for asking him to help. This Major Appleseed had been coming to the Embassy for two days, flashing all sorts of credentials, and asking for information that he had no right to ask for. So now Gladwell would have to take on the unpleasant task of turning him away.
For all the pain he was causing, Appleseed was a serving officer in the US Army so Gladwell did him the courtesy of calling him to his office and asking for some coffee to be served. As Appleseed walked in, Gladwell saw that the bull analogy was quite appropriate given Appleseed’s bulk. As he began speaking, Gladwell found himself taking an instinctive dislike to him. He was eager and friendly in the manner of a pushy car salesman.
‘Morning, Gladwell. Am I glad I got to meet you instead of trying to convince those bureaucrats down there to help me out. This person of interest I’m looking for has registered at the Embassy and I’m hoping you can make my life simple and tell me where she is.’
Gladwell kept his tone pleasant, but his voice had an edge to it. ‘Major Appleseed, as others have explained to you already, we cannot share details of where a particular US citizen is staying in Delhi because you have no apparent need to know.’
When Appleseed fished inside his coat pocket for some papers, Gladwell waved them aside. ‘You have personal letters from some senators and a supposedly verbal instruction from the Vice President. Unless I have something more formal than that, I am not going to compromise the privacy of a US citizen.’
Appleseed’s smile disappeared, to be replaced by a look of disdain. ‘Look, Gladwell, I was just trying to save myself time. I can get what I need in a couple of days.’ As he began to walk out the door, he turned to look at Gladwell. ‘I see your desire to play Boy Scout has not gone away. I’ve seen your Army files, and if I were you, I would get with the program. The people I work for will need people they can trust, and will have no patience for those who stand in their way.’
Gladwell stood up, barely controlling his anger. ‘Major, I have seen your files and I can see why you picked up the moniker of the ‘Beast of Kandahar’. With the human rights violations you are accused of, you should be in jail. I suppose your political connections are bailing you out, but I have no room for them here. Goodbye.’
As Appleseed slammed the door on the way out, Gladwell sat down, trying to calm down. Appleseed had struck a nerve, one Gladwell had tried to keep buried. As a young officer straight out of training, he had been on a peacekeeping mission in Bosnia, with orders not to intervene unless his men were fired on. They had stumbled upon a group of masked gunmen who had lined up several dozen young men and boys and had begun to execute them. After repeated pleas over the radio to get permission to intervene, he had acted on his conscience and ordered his men to open fire. Eight of the gunmen were killed but instead of being rewarded for saving dozens of civilians, Gladwell found his military career in tatters, especially when it was revealed that the gunmen were on the payroll of a US Private Military Contractor with links to powerful senators. The case was buried and Gladwell was given an honorable discharge. A change in administration gave him the opportunity to rejoin the government but this time as a diplomat, determined to not let such perversities of foreign policy happen again. With people like Appleseed on the loose, and what his friend had mentioned about Zeus operatives, he was not so sure that he or anyone else could come in the way of the sort of evil that Appleseed and his masters represented.
As he headed home, he wondered who Appleseed had been so interested in. He hadn’t even bothered to ask his staff, but then it was the principle that mattered. Gladwell closed his eyes and tried to wish away the throbbing headache.
***
‘Honey, I’m sorry, but you need to listen to me when I tell you something. You are not going out today. Am I clear?’
Gladwell had shouted much louder than he had intended to, but the accumulated stress of the last two days was beginning to tell on him. Jane sulked and ran sobbing to her room. ‘You made me miss my ballet performance in school. You know how much I’ve prepared for that.’
Gladwell winced as she slammed the door to her room, but he had already vented enough at her to take her to task for this display of defiance. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘You’re beginning to scare me. First you tell me not to step outside of the home, now Jane, and why on Earth do you have a gun in our house? Will you please tell me what’s going on?’
Gladwell took his wife’s hand in his and slumped against her, finally feeling himself unable to bear all the pressure and tension he had been under for the last two days. He asked Jo to sit down, and she sat down on his lap, trying to calm him down.
‘Do you know all the stuff that’s on TV about the virus in China and reports about something like it in the US?’
When Jo nodded, he continued, finding that sharing what was plaguing him made it a bit easier to bear, though he was now passing on a terrible burden onto Jo. But if things were going to unravel as fast as he feared, she needed to be prepared.
‘The news channels are downplaying it, making it seem like something like bird flu or swine flu. But it’s not, it’s much, much worse.’
‘Do you mean worse in terms of people dying from i
t?’
Gladwell fumbled for a while, trying to put into words what little he had learned. ‘This virus does something to people. It doesn’t kill them, but it changes them. They start attacking others. I don’t know much more, but I do know they are about to declare martial law in some parts of the US.’
He could tell by the expression on Jo’s face just how difficult she found it to believe this. ‘I’m sure they’ll cure it. It’s just a virus…’
Gladwell cut her off. ‘Jo, I don’t know a lot, but I’ve read some cables that show it’s spreading faster than anyone thought and its effects are like nothing anyone’s seen. Then you have half the planet going to war at the same time, and nobody has a handle on things any more. I heard the first cases in India are being reported so I want you guys to stay home.’
‘What happens now?’
Gladwell stood up, gathering his coat. He was now on more familiar ground. While the danger was very real and imminent, he knew the emergency evacuation procedures were in place and his government would not let him and the other Embassy staffers down.
‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. If the shit does hit the fan, they’ll get us out.’
***
‘I’m sorry to disturb you personally, Madam Vice President, but nobody seems to be seeing the gravity of the situation. There are cases in India now and the media is still largely ignoring the spread. All I’m asking is that we authorize an emergency evacuation of the families of Embassy staff here. I and a skeleton staff will stay behind.’
Gladwell had sent many cables to Washington making the same request, and many of his colleagues around the world were making similar pleas. What was puzzling was that nobody in Washington seemed to care. It was as if they thought they could wish away the crisis by denying it existed. So Gladwell had taken the risky gambit of going all the way to the top. One of his mentors had been a White House staffer, and while he was unable to help directly, he was able to at least set up this call.
